


Hesitation Waltz

by Drbwho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 19:33:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1699979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drbwho/pseuds/Drbwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>petyr x sansa week prompt fill (Petyr is Sansa's dance teacher).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“ **One** two three_

**_One_ ** _two three_

**_One_ ** _two three_

**_One_ ** _two three…”_

 

He heard his partner chanting as he absentmindedly scanned the crowd of novice dancers. No, they couldn’t even be called _novices_ yet; clumsy feet tripping on toes, hands grasping their partner’s as a struggle for stability rather than elegance. Sweat beaded on brows already furrowed in concentration. Some of their lips moved in time, murmuring the numbers along with their instructor.

He tried not to look disgusted.

He waited, usually, to survey the room until Ros already had them dancing. The very start, the awkward glances around the room as each one found a dancing partner, the nervous giggles and apologetic shrugs were all too much for him. Offering classes for beginners hadn’t been his idea in the first place, and he made it clear to her that his patience was thinning. His time would be better spent elsewhere, at his real job, not the side-classes he taught as an alibi for more perfidious endeavors.

But every week a new batch arrived, moving around in stumbling motions, most of them surely never to return, too embarrassed to show their faces again once they realized that _dancing was hard_. He found that the majority of those he taught ( _well, Ros did most of the teaching_ ) weren’t willing to put in the effort, only wanting to look mildly competent at a wedding or some other gathering.

An older man with gray hair and sweat pants tripped, bumping into the couple behind him. Petyr sighed as his partner hurried over to right them, all the while continuing to count out loud.

The simple Box Step, in a crowd such as this, always proved to be a convoluted mess at first. Ros had plastered pieces of tape to the floor in square shapes to try and keep the groups uniform, but once they incorporated _actual turning_ to the movements all hell would break loose.

 

The door slammed behind them, breaking him out of his glazed-over stare. He turned with focused eyes, ready to accuse the intruder of breaking his _beloved_ class’s rhythm, but the words stuck in his mouth as he caught sight of her.

She was tall, auburn hair cascading down a blue cotton shirt tucked into a white skirt, the color nearly matching her pale skin. Her eyes were oceanic and bright. The man wasn’t stunned easily; the girl was striking to say the least, and terribly familiar. Had he met her before? Words found him again before anyone would have known better. “Can I help you?”

“Um, yes. I think so.” She fumbled with the phone in her hand, sliding her fingers on the screen, reading from the device. “Is this the beginners Waltz class?” A sheepish smile formed on pink lips.

“You’re late.” Ros spoke up from behind the man.

“I know. I’m sorry. I got lost on the way.”

He pointed to the wall, where a schedule was hanging. “We offer it again on Wednesdays at noon.” _Unfortunately for me,_ Petyr didn’t say. “You can come back then.” Not kindly said, but not cruel either; the words, much like Petyr himself, balanced between the two.

“Oh.” Disappointment was clear in her sharp blue eyes. “Would you mind if I just watched, this time?”

“Fine.” Ros said impatiently, darting between the girl and the class still straining with counting. Petyr almost laughed; they hadn’t even introduced music yet. “Stand in the corner, there, where you won’t be in the way.”

She moved obediently to where she had been ordered, standing perfectly still and watching the group. Petyr would glance over occasionally, between correcting pairs he came across and ignoring everyone entirely. She was certainly concentrating on the moves; nodding her head in time, her hands twitching in wont of motion, sneakers moving to the pace set. She, unlike the rest, could at least keep the beat.

The class ended with a show. Everyone stopped to watch as Petyr took Ros in hand and led her to the center for a quick demonstration. They went through each step, gliding effortlessly in a way their audience couldn’t, until he ended the dance with a parting and a smile at her, eyes remaining indifferent. His lack of enjoyment was never really lost on the woman, she just chose to ignore it.

The class parted ways, only a few stragglers remained as Ros kneeled to peel the tape from the floor before their evening class. “They’re getting worse.” He said quietly next to her, digging at a stray piece of adhesive with his polished dress shoe.

“No, you’re just getting grumpier. Stop complaining.” Ros huffed in response.

“Sir? Ma’am?” They both turned, not realizing the red-haired girl was still in the studio, fingers wringing together nervously.

“Yes?” Ros was the first to answer her, standing with a mass of tape balled in a cage of fingers.

“That was amazing…just great.” She began. “I just-I want to be able to do that.”

“It takes time and work, that’s all.” Ros said simply, bending forward again, obviously finished with the dialogue.

Petyr stared at her. He found her fascinating, _but why?_ “You were paying attention, weren’t you? To the steps?”

“Of course.”

A small smile formed on his mouth as he nodded to the middle of the floor. “Then let’s go.”

She hesitated, unsure of herself. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me. Let’s see what you’ve learned.” _A dare_ , and would she take him up on it? He moved to the record player and Ros rolled her eyes, leaving the room with another puff of breath. He’d insisted on bringing it to the studio despite her expensive stereo that had taken over a wall of the room.

But there was just _something_ about dancing to a record, the music grainer and more real. It was how he’d learned to dance in the first place, years ago.

Once the music began she led the way to the center. Clearly her interest in being taught won out over nervousness, but the look of anxiety on her face was plain. He put his hands out, palms facing her, in question. “Where do my hands go?” A terrible way to start a lesson; he hadn’t bothered to go over proper posture or how many points of connection there were. But, he’d never been a conventional instructor anyway.

She tentatively brought her right hand up. “Your left…to my right?”

“Good.” He took his hand in hers, slightly bent and extended out. His other hand slithered beneath her arm, secured under her left shoulder blade. “Now your hand on my bicep.”

She did as he asked, a feather-light touch to his black shirt. “Is that okay?”

“You can press down, you’ll need to when we start to move.” He straightened his back, muscle memory taking over. “Now follow my lead, we’ll start slow.”

There was no counting, no mumbled numbers under her breath as his left foot slid forward and her mirrored appendage matched it back. There was no pause, as there usually was with new dancers, when he moved them sideways, her left foot trailing after his right almost immediately. She allowed herself to be moved but still maintained her own parallel, a tricky equilibrium.

_She was a natural._

Consternation began to creep away after a few rotations, and Petyr added a slight turn to the movements and she met it with grace. She stared over his shoulder, still concentrating on her motions, but not staring at her feet as with his typical customers. Occasionally her shoes would make a squeaking sound on the waxed floor. “You should be wearing heels.” An attempt to knock her out of her focus, keep her out of any comfort zone. _You should always be learning._

Her eyes snapped over to look into his mossy ones. “Not good for practicing though, are they?”

“You’ll have to learn eventually, best to start with them.” An actual bit of advice, rarely given by the man. He usually hoarded his wisdom, kept it close.

“If you don’t have to wear them why should I?” A grin lit up her face they kept moving and turning.

A smirk from him to match hers, eyebrows raised. “I don’t make the rules.” Petyr felt warm near the girl. Despite himself, he wanted the dance to continue. His right hip moved inward, meeting her own, chests still apart as the dance commanded. Still, he heard the sharp inhale of breath, saw the rosiness of her cheeks at the connection. “Why are you so eager to learn?”

She looked down for the first time, staring at his chest. “No reason, really.” _A lie_ , quietly said.

He let it go, widening the turns and in doing so, bringing them closer together. His breathing was measured, slow and steady. Her hair began to swish back and forth with the broader steps, a floral shampoo scent wafting in his direction once or twice. It would be so easy to bring her close, to place a hand on her porcelain jaw and steal a kiss from her full and parted lips…

He was watching her with some transparency, he was certain. His hooded gaze was not lost on her, judging by the way her face flushed further, her grip on his arm tightened.

_Oh, he could teach her so very much._

For the first time, their pace was off, slow in comparison to the music, which seemed so far off in contrast to the sound of her breathing so near him. A small tug, an invitation, at her scapula to allow chests to meet. Her form crept forward slowly. And then finally, she was close and she was perfect and her mouth was slightly open and waiting.

Did he dare?

Her tongue darted out quickly, to wet a dry lower lip.

And he was finished.

His mouth met hers in a soft embrace, their joined and extended hands parted and Petyr brought his fingers up to intertwine with her hanging locks. Her own lips began to work in tandem, parting to allow his tongue to slide forward, tasting her.

He couldn’t be sure how long it lasted, but when he had a chance to actually consider it their dance had ceased completely and their mouths were no longer experimental, but hungry, hands straying and searching for more contact.

And then Petyr began to rationalize. _What are you doing?_ He pulled away, with some difficulty, bringing a hand to his face.

_Shit. How old is she? What’s her name?_ The man wasn’t known for his carelessness, but there it was anyway, taking the form of a long-limbed beauty whose lips were swollen and eyes wide in questioning.

They stood in silence for a moment, Petyr hoping Ros hadn’t witnessed any of it, until the girl spoke up. “Should I…should I come back next week?”

“No.” His hand dropped to his side and into a pocket of his slacks. _No use denying it now_.

“ _Tomorrow.”_


	2. foxtrot

_She wore heels._

  
It was the first thing he noticed when he stepped into the room, gradually scanning the crowd of nervous men and women. The pair were a deep green colour, not so tall that it would give her any grief on the floor. The dress she wore matched the shade, a light and mid-length modest costume sure to flow and breeze with her. Long auburn hair spilled in waves down her back.

  
Had she worn it all for him?

  
Inwardly, he had hoped she wouldn’t come back. The waltz, the kiss, all of it was a mistake. But seeing her slender, elegant form he found himself unable to force her out of the dance hall. He wouldn’t engage her, he decided. He’d leave her alone and she’d go home afterward and forget anything happened.

  
These things could end up tricky, after all. Petyr wasn’t fond of attachments, and even less fond of mistakes. Dalliances were for people with far less to lose.

  
The lesson, like all of their beginners classes, was basic. There was no room in the fumbling, confusing mass of novices for any sort of variation. And so he began, the same empty spiel he always gave; the Foxtrot, 4/4 timing, the history and adaptability of the dance, and the basic positioning. Ros stood beside him, occasionally beckoned for a demonstration as he called for the group to stand and take position. He watched miserably as hands and fingers floundered, grappling shoulders and clinging to waists awkwardly. He ignored them, all of them, for a moment, sweeping digits through his now-mussed hair while he tried not to expel an exasperated sigh.

  
A quick glance told him the girl had found some young man for her partner, uneasy smiles plastered on both faces. It was something she’d have to get used to if she continued to dance. She would need _flexibility;_ you never know who you’ll end up dancing with. The kid was her own age, or close enough. Maybe the he would prove a good distraction, maybe she wouldn’t give the older instructor another thought.

  
The way her eyes kept drifting toward his, seeking approval, told a different story.   
  
“Forward, forward, side-close,” was the tired repetition pushed from his mouth. Some of them were already lost; he was sure they’d give up by the time the promenade was introduced, and he wouldn’t blame them. Ros meandered through, offering assistance when needed, a tired look on her face.

  
_Some people just lacked finesse._

  
“You’re staring at her.” His partner whispered from behind him when she finally made it around to each pupil. “What’s gotten into you? _She’s a child._ End this ridiculous game.”

  
He nodded at her as he continued his chant and she turned away to go help a struggling couple, apparently satisfied with his answer. He knew he should end whatever he started the day before. He _would_ end it.   
  
After the lesson finished he dismissed the group and moved to the room to the side where they kept a coffee machine and a desk for their appointments. He shut the door behind him, forehead resting on the wall adjacent.

  
Ros entered a few moments later, gathering her purse and keys. On her way out she spoke over her shoulder, a warning. “She’s out there, Petyr, waiting for you.”

  
_Shit._

  
“Still here?” He asked as he walked into the hall again. She was seated in the corner, the same place Ros had banished her to the day before. Her dress pooled around her, ankles crossed on the floor with her heels pointed toward him.

  
“You told me to come back.” Where she was all confidence before she seemed so unsure now, her face growing pinker by the second. He could practically hear her thoughts. _Did he just mean for class? Should I leave? What does he want?_

  
That face, that uncertainty. All of it made him want her. His willpower was slipping away, and he didn’t find himself missing it.

  
“Come here.” Quietly spoken with an outstretched arm. He kept his eyes on her as she lifted to a stand and glided over to him with her dress floating around her. She was graceful even in those simple movements. He wanted to dance with her, show her how to move properly, how to stun a crowd without a word. He wanted to place his hands on her waist and circle the room with her for hours.

  
_He wanted to fuck her._ Against the wall, on the balancing bar set in front of the mirror for the ballet class on the weekends. Could she see it? The desire in his eyes, the hunger? The further flushing of her face seemed to give him the answer. “Show me what you’ve learned today.”

  
She did well enough with the movements, and for a few moments his desire to educate won out against any other emotions. He corrected her hand placement, showed her just when to rotate her head back at the end of a step, and demonstrated the way to brush her heels together at the joining. It wasn’t until she grew complacent in the motions, bringing her hand up boldly to brush against where his hair had started to grey, that traitorous thoughts resurfaced.  

  
He stopped them from moving, holding her in place. “What are you looking for here?”

  
The question gave her pause as she looked down to his chest. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

  
Her hand was still in his, the same point of contact from the Foxtrot abandoned. He slid fingers down her arm, sweeping along the side of her ribs until he met her other hip. His eyes followed the path, watching the material move with his swimming fingers. “You’re not just looking for a dance, are you?”

  
Her freed arm fell to her side, resting atop his newly-placed hand. “No. I suppose not.”

  
He flashed a wry smile at her, bringing her closer with his firmly placed hands. And when he spoke, he was her instructor again. “Shall we begin?”   
  
“I’ve-I’ve never done-“

  
“It doesn’t matter.” But in truth, _that made it so much better_. His mouth rested on her exposed neck, placing dry kisses down to her collarbone while his fingers tightened around her hips.

“Think of it as a dance. _I’ll teach you._ ” There wasn’t any awkward hesitance; he wasn’t a young boy fumbling at the thought of an inexperienced girl. This was an opportunity, one that sent blood rushing just where she would be able to feel against her lower abdomen. And why would he hide it? She came back, she was willing, and Petyr was many things _but a decent, upstanding man wasn’t one of them_.

  
He turned her around then, on the middle of the dance floor, bringing her back to his chest. His fingers dug into soft skin as he swayed back and forth, guiding her movements. “ _A dance,_ ” He repeated, murmuring into the space between jaw and shoulder. It was then that his hands started to wander, grazing the side of a breast, feeling his way down to her thigh. He moved painfully slow. “It takes time, patience… _practice_. Do you think you can put in the effort?”

  
“Yes.” Softly spoken, as she rested her head on him, allowing him more access.

  
“I won’t have you wasting my time otherwise. You must be certain you’re committed.” Still guiding her from side to side at a measured pace, one hand reached to gently cup a breast, barely feeling.

  
“I won’t waste your time.” A sigh escaped her, and he was sure she was being honest. Well, as honest as she could be, given the circumstances.

  
He gripped her dress, pulling up a side until her thigh was exposed. His other hand found her underwear, fingers slipping under the silky fabric. She felt warm as he slipped a finger between her folds, a teasing back and forth motion in time with a slow beat. One of her hands covered his own while the other grasped his face, pulling him in for a kiss. “Like this?” She asked innocently, coquettishly.

  
“A _very_ good start,” he managed to say before mouths connected again. He swallowed the noises she made as index finger traveled further down, into her entrance, slowly pressing in and pulling out while his thumb moved above, causing her to abandon their swaying motion for a different sort of undulation.

  
“My fingers, my tongue, my cock,” he spoke against lips as his pace quickened, following the direction and tempo her straining and desperate body demanded, “do you want them?” _Because you’ll have them._

  
He could feel her clenching, milking his finger as she found her completion, still bucking against him. “Yes,” she gasped in-between breaths.

  
He smiled against her neck, planting a soft kiss. “Then you have a great deal to learn.”


	3. tango

And learn she did. In class, _after class_ , the girl was talented. Even Ros would admit she had a great deal of potential as far as novices went. She danced circles around half of the intermediates when they made the decision to advance her from the beginner’s group. Still, she insisted on attending more and more lessons, often sitting in the introductory courses over and over; to watch, to learn.   
  
And sometimes, when the class was finished, they’d have a decidedly more private lesson. It always started with a dance, typically the one they’d been practicing previously. It always ended improperly; sometimes with Petyr’s fingers inside of her, sometimes his tongue between her legs, but always with a final gasp from her open mouth. Each time they met he dared to step a little further, unravel her thread by thread. He could wait; wait for her to beg, for his machinations to drive her to the edge. The restraint, the ache, made it all the more appealing.   
  
+  
  
He hated teaching the Tango. The awkwardly bent knees of the fumbling pairs, the distinct lack of passion that should come so naturally with the movements. The tripping, staring at feet, stepping out of time; it was painful to watch. So he watched her instead. The girl was hard to miss; the one beacon of light in a sea of clumsy fools. Today, however, she was dancing with someone new, someone he didn’t recognise. A boy, seemingly close to her own age.  
  
It wasn’t lost on Ros, either, who found herself unable to mask a smile when she moved to his side. She never missed an opportunity to make a snide remark, especially if concerned Sansa. “Looks like your girl found herself a new fella. She traded you in for a younger model. His name’s Harry, by the way; he just moved here.” She couldn’t stop herself from chuckling for a moment before regaining composure. “Hope you don’t mind I signed him up for your classes.” Petyr’s response was a set jaw. The boy moved well, the man had to admit. A step above the rest of the novices, she’d found the most capable body in the room, with the exception of the instructors. But watching them, her ivory legs parted on either side of his knee, the way her body arched without a second thought into the boy’s chest…  
  
He formulated a different sort of lesson for their meeting after class.   
  
+  
  
He leaned against the dancer’s bar as she slid her hands down his sides, coming to rest on her knees. His own hands grasped the bar loosely, patiently, watching her clumsy attempts at teasing him. It _was_ working, though; he was feeling appropriately _teased_ despite her lack of experience. That was the problem; she didn’t have to do much of anything to torment him. Her fingers grazed him through his slacks as she smiled up at him with that newly learned coquettish tilt, and he nearly abandoned the game altogether. Fucking her was becoming too tempting; he wouldn’t last much longer.

  
His breath was even and controlled when her small, soft mouth finally closed around him. He watched her move up and down his length, unable to take him in entirely. “Use your tongue,” he managed to say, sounding more composed than he felt. And god, when her tongue circled the tip of him he couldn’t help tilt his head back, eyes closed. “Yes, _good_ , like that.” His hand reached to thread through her auburn hair, tenderly. He would ease her into it, ease her into enjoying the taste of him, the feel of him.   
  
Eyes opened again, unable to resist seeing himself disappear into her warm, wet mouth. And that was when he noticed him. From the corner of his eye he could see the blonde boy, gym bag in hand. He was in the doorway, still far enough off to barely be noticeable. And hadn’t Petyr told him to use his office as a changing room? Didn't he tell the boy that Sansa would be right out, just as soon as they had a brief chat?

The girl thought he’d left. Was it Petyr himself that told her he saw Harry leave without even a goodbye?

  
_It must have slipped his mind._

  
She didn’t see him; she was preoccupied with the older man’s cock, sucking and licking like an amateur. But it didn’t matter; he would guide her, show her the right way to move, _to tease,_ to be perfect for him. And he did show her; the hand at her head took over, steering her into a quicker, less broken rhythm. He was careful not to push it; he didn’t want the boy to see her gag on him. Petyr's hips involuntary bucked as well, now that a tempo was set.

  
He turned his gaze to Harry, staring directly at him while he controlled his girl. And the boy just watched; alarmed, confused, maybe even a little hurt. Maybe he had a little crush. Petyr didn’t care, then, if his mouth was agape when he told the boy with his eyes what he wanted to say with his words as he groaned:

  
_You don’t get to have her. She’s mine, you see._

  
_Mine._


End file.
